The Lion and the Beast
by BookyJuliet
Summary: Hermione's first assignment seems doomed to failure, when Draco Malfoy, a newly made Death Eater gone rogue becomes her unlikely companion. With charms to disguise her appearance, he is her only hope to survive the summer as she infiltrates Malfoy manor. She is a Phoenix turned spy, he is a Death Eater turned blood traitor. And if they survive this, life will never be the same.
1. The Lion and the Beast

**Title: **The Lion and the Beast  
**Author: **BookyJuliet  
**Genre: **Angst, Dark, Romance.  
**AU/CU: **Alternate Universe.  
**Rating: **M, For safety reasons.  
**Warnings: **Mild bad language.  
**Word Count: **2,794 Words.  
**A/N: **A little draggy, probably a little out of character, but it's an AU…sort of so what the hell. It's a first chapter, so it's not perfect, as I often find myself in a position of knowing _where _I would like to go, and without the faintest idea as to _how _I ought to get there. This chapter…Prologue? Is more of a place to start and less of an installment of any kind of story. Getting the gritty and unnecessary details out of the way while I can, and attempt to jump off from there; sadly, I have little (rather no) experience writing Mad-Eye Moody as a character. This should be apparent in the awkward way I go about it towards the end of things. I am creating a novel of an author's note, so without further ado, the first chapter…Prologue…thing.  
**Summary: **As the two men sit, neither speaking, there is weight to the air, like the gravity of the situation is acknowledged by the universe as they continue to sit, neither breaking the silence. Consumed by their thoughts and own trepidations. Finally, "Do you think she can actually pull it off?" Silence is the answer for a long moment, then a pristine snort. "Of course she can't."

The Lion and the Beast

The air was stifling, the sun hanging heavy in the sky. The London summer was brutal, despite having just begun, and already the temperature was climbing to what she was positive could be counted as new highs, not that it mattered. The back lawn of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was still, despite the mass of bodies sprawled out along its expanse, the tree trunks having grown birth the form of flesh as people huddled in the shade, and their brooms forgotten as midday heat squashed any notion of playing Quidditch.

To her credit, she hadn't even tried to advise them against the game, and for the first hour or so, it seemed that the heat couldn't stop the rowdy, newly graduated Gryffindor's from zooming about the sky at speeds so quick it made her head spin. Instead, she stayed inside, the house was kept cool by magic, and the open window allowed the occasional stagnant breeze to caress her face, tease at her hair as brown eyes stayed trained upon the book in her hands. How many times? How many times had she ready Hogwarts: A History? How many times had she allowed her eyes to skim the dry pages, soaking in the knowledge until there seemed to be nothing more she could learn from its depths?

_Too many_, she supposed.

But it was the only way to keep her mind on something other than the growing unease in her stomach, the feeling that this was the calm before the storm. The last deep breath before the plunge, and whatever steps that were to come, those were unknown to her. She lost the right to plot her moves when she signed up for the Order. The ritual itself would be considered barbaric to the outside world. A contract signed in blood. Till death or fulfillment do you part.

Behind, the soft, padded footsteps of heavy boots hitting carpet caught her attention, and she turned, awkwardly looking over her shoulder as she gave the imposter in her study a once over. It wasn't hers, not really. But since summer had begun she had found a liking for curling up in one of its many black upholstered chairs in front of the window, drinking in the weather, while still keeping up on her reading.

"Professor?" She finally asked, her voice holding the questions she didn't speak. Since graduating, since the Order was becoming more and more busy these days standing on the edge of a war no one was really sure they could win, she had seen less and less of Remus Lupin, or any of the Order members, really. There had been just enough time to swear in new recruits before many of the members, Aurors, Ministry Officials, teachers, and previously graduated students had scattered, back to their missions and out posts, and who knows where else.

"Hermione, it's good to see you." Though he smiled, she couldn't help but to notice the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight that seemed to always rest upon his shoulders, burdening them to the point of physical change as he seemed to slump in on himself. This was not her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher of her third year. Traces of him still existed. Only traces.

"You too," she smiled, feeling awkward for some reason; maybe it was the way he eyed like. Something in the depths that expressed deep regret, like whatever he'd sought her out for was going to deeply upset her. Regret, and compassion, and a plea for her to understand what it would all mean. Maybe she was just reading too much into it. Maybe she was just crazy.

"Moody would like a word, when you are free. But I would recommend sooner rather than later, he seems to be in quite a mood today." Hermione nodded, curls bouncing along as she slowly closed her book, setting upon the windowsill, she wouldn't be gone long.

With her luck, it was another 'mission'. Since she had been sworn in she'd done hundreds of them. She was running messages to Wizards and Witches in hiding in Muggle London, and who better to do it than her? The muggle-born, Hermione Granger. Brightest witch of her age, reduced to a courier service. She tried not to feel bitter. It was helping; at least she was doing something. But it was a far cry from waging war against Death Eaters, and protecting her family and friends. Harry and Ron were being taught battle tactics and strategy and what was she? A human bloody owl, that's what.

"Hermione…" his voice pulled her back from her distasteful thoughts, and she realized with a hint of embarrassment that she had been zoning out, staring out over her friends in the back yard, unmoving for Merlin only knows how long. "Sorry, Professor. I must have gotten lost in thought," she breathed as she turned to cross the room.

She thought she heard him sigh, say something. But she ignored it as she made her way through the quite, dark house to the kitchen, the unofficial center of operations during day light hours and late into the evenings. Mad-Eye Moody had an office, but rarely used it. And it was rare to find a time when Molly Weasley was not at headquarters when rolls of parchment, half written battle plans, orders and non-sensitive information didn't litter the table.

It was a shock then, when she was redirected up the stairs by an Auror she didn't know, despite the fact that he'd been camping out at Number Twelve for what seemed like an awfully long time with as frequently the other members of the Order were coming and going so quickly it was hard to keep up.

She climbed the stairs silently, and with no shortage of trepidation, her mind whirling. What kind of message had to be delivered that she was meeting the unofficial but popularly appointed leader of the Order of the Phoenix in his rarely used office in the middle of the day? Though she tried to ignore the heavy feeling in her gut; adding to the restlessness that had plagued her all day, keeping her on edge and nervous. Because it felt like something was coming. Something big and she was powerless to stop it. As powerless against this sudden unknown threat as she was against the whole of the second damn wizarding war.

She was breathing; she knew she was, as she stood outside Moody's office. Because of the spells and heavy enchantments that she could feel beating against her skin, she couldn't hear who, if anyone was inside. She her hand twitched, fighting between knocking and just standing there, taking slow, measured breaths. Once, twice, three times she tried, and failed to knock. And on the fourth try, the door whipped open anyway, the choice stolen from her as she stared into the wild eyes of the man himself.

He stares her down, eyes sharp analyzing every inch of her for a long moment before he seems to accept it is really her. "Are you gonna come in, Granger or do you plan on standing out there all bloody day?" He barks, and she can tell by his tone that he is aggravated. One might argue that Mad-Eye Moody was always aggravated to say the very least. But when he was really steamed, such as now, it was better to just keep a low profile and hope he didn't do permanent damage.

"Sorry," she mumbles, making her way into the office only after he stares her down a few seconds longer and then sees fit to side-step her, letting her enter the dimly office that was all his own. Shown, mostly, by the sneakscopes that lined the room, surrounded by other odd trinkets that seemed odd for him to have; but in their oddity fit right in. Some, she could recognize easily enough. Some completely foreign to her.

She is forced to sit, sensing, rather than seeing a figure in the corner, a flash of platinum. An unmistakable aura, but one that she can't for the life of her seem to place. And all the while she is feeling like maybe this isn't just another mission to deliver a package or envelopes. And maybe this is going to be the big step in her duties she has been waiting for. This scares her as much as it excites her. And Hermione feels her back straightening, her eyes leveling on her once upon a time, and almost, professor as he limps around his desk, remaining standing as he finally sits, pulling a file towards him.

"Granger, what type of sweets to you hate?" He barks, and she recognizes this as a safe question, to test her identity, it seems absurd. "Chocolate." She finally offers, hesitantly. And he seems to accept it. And she doesn't question it further, though she is dying to know.

"You joined the order with Potter and Weasley," he grunts, his good eye, or perhaps just the real one scanning the pages of her file, the many tests she took to asses her skills, and talents, and shortcomings becoming visible. She had never been told the results of those tests. It bothered her more than she was willing to admit. But all the while his magic eye was on her, bouncing about as it whirled between her, and the unknown behind her. Focusing and refocusing so quickly it made her dizzy.

"Excellent marks in spell work, history, potions, transfiguration, apparition and defense against the darks, as well as muggle studies, occlumency and ruins. Weak in divination. Shaky under pressure, but determined and quick on your feet." She bristled about his mention of divination, _worthless subject_ she internally hissed. She could swear the person in the corner snickered, and she mentally cursed them as well. And though she wanted to argue, to defend her marks, instead she set her face, squaring her jaw, and clenching her teeth.

"According to this," Moody finally looked up at her. "You aren't suited to battle." He said it as casually as if he'd told her he wanted eggs for breakfast, cream in his coffee, or butter for his bread. Like he hadn't just wounded her pride, set off her temper, and caused her to panic. Suited for it or not, she was going to fight. Because that was the plan, because she was a member of the Golden Trio, and her place was wherever Harry and Ron where and not even Mad-Eye Moody was going to stop her, not ever.

He seemed like he sensed the war in her thoughts, but he pressed on saying the words she hadn't been expecting to hear. "You've got orders, top secret. I personally don't think you've got the guts, or the skills to pull this off. Nothing against you, Granger. But if I had my way and experienced witch would be taking point on this one."

"I've got experience," she countered and his eyes snapped at her.

"This isn't about-"

"But I _have_ got experience." She countered again, cutting him off, her eyes seeming to be demanding an apology. All she got was an annoyed grunt in response.

"This isn't a battle mission," he snapped, and it seemed effective in getting her to fall silent as her eyes dropped to her hands, her fingers nervously dancing against each other. "I'm sorry, Sir." She finally breathed, and he pressed on, his tone warrant no more outbursts.

"Regardless of your lack of experience, Remus seems to think you can handle it. Minerva assures me you are crafty enough. And Arthur seemed down right offended that I doubted ya at all." He paused only momentarily before he continued. "In the last few months, Voldemort and his inner circle have taken up residence at Malfoy Manor. Intel tells us he's grown quite comfortable there, and feels as safe as he can from any outside attack. We've only got one chance at this," his eyes seemed to stress the point, like she didn't understand, and she didn't. Because what did Malfoy Manor and Voldemort have to do with her?

"It's dangerous, this mission. And critical, and one mistake means torture and death, Granger. And not all of the members of the Order, or Harry Potter can save you if you get caught." His fake eye whirled again. "Our informant on the other side will work closely with you. You will be using charms to change your appearance, and you will adapt an alias, you will be given all of the information you need about this new character, name, age, blood status, family back ground. Once you go in, you are there for the duration. Once you go in, there will be no contact with the outside."

Maybe she looked like she was getting ready to bolt, because he stopped, counting heavy, poignant seconds before he trudged onwards. "Every breath you take, every time you close your eyes, take a step you will be scrutinized. You will be doubted. Tested. Your mind will be violated, and your life in constant danger. You will help our informant gather information, which he will report to us. If you take on this mission, you're on your own."

He said it again, maybe to stress the point. To drive it home in her skull. "H-how long? Until…until I would be leaving?" she finally manages to get out. Her mouth is suddenly too dry, her mind thinking too fast, but already it seems to have reached its decision, with or without her consent. Because he talking about the end of her life, but she is thinking about the possibilities.

How many lives could she save with that kind of information? Information from not just Death Eaters, but high ranking Death Eaters, the ones who matter the ones Voldemort trusts, or trusts as much as he does anyone. It's priceless. And people won't have to die, not as many at least. Even a handful of people who survive because was brave enough to at least try would make the end of her life worth it. Because those lives might be Ron Weasley, or Ginny Weasley or maybe even Harry Potter it's a chance too big to pass up to save those she loves.

"You leave tonight," he breathes, with an air of finality, passing her the breafing folder over the desk.

Her fingers shake as she accepts it, nodding at his orders to return when she is ready, and to memorize the file. And then she is ducking out the door.

As the two men sit, neither speaking, there is weight to the air, like the gravity of the situation is acknowledged by the universe as they continue to sit, neither breaking the silence. Consumed by their thoughts and own trepidations. Finally, "Do you think she can actually pull it off?" Silence is the answer for a long moment, then a pristine snort. "Of course she can't."

The only answer is a disheveled grunt.

It would surprise most everyone to learn that Mad-Eye Moody does not actually care for sending people to die. Even for the greater good. And it is something he does not because he wants to do it, but because he has little choice. It is what he _has _to do. And if he doesn't, than he imagines no one will. It is an incredible burden that he holds on unfaltering shoulders. Still. Sending the Granger girl on a suicide mission was enough to fill him with a touch of remorse. Just a cold finger, that trapped itself in the door, that he knows will one day cave to the pressure of the other such cracks in his defenses. But there will be time for that later.

"For your sake, you might want to find some optimism. " It is unsure who is more surprised when the burly man speaks, his magical eye going crazy, seeing everything and nothing at once as he fixes the human one on the blonde, who's sneer has become apparent. "Any chance you have at freedom dies if she does."

The sneer faulted. "You should probably get prepared, Ferret. She already agreed to the mission, she can't back out now. But when she realized the nature of the relationship she has to play out, and who you are, I'll wager you get hit but a few nasty curses before any of us remember you are on our side these days."

As the blonde plutocrat excited his office in a silent seething rage, Mad-Eye smirked to himself; the sight would have been frightening had anyone been around to witness it. He did not enjoy sending them to their deaths. But he did take pride in the little things…


	2. Can You Feel The Thunder?

**Title: **The Lion and the Beast  
**Author: **BookyJuliet  
**Genre: **Dark, Romance.  
**AU/CU: **Alternate Universe.  
**Rating: **M, for safety reasons.  
**Warnings: **More harsh language.  
**Word Count: **2,818.  
**A/N: **Things are getting on track, and I have written two chapters in a day, with the third, fourth and fifth already begging to be written. This is going drastically better than anticipated.  
**Summary: **And he says like he is chastising a solder. And she realizes with a little surprise that is exactly what she has become. And she's getting orders, not her grades on a test. There is no extra credit. Just hard facts; and these marks can't be undone. "Yes Sir."

Can You Feel the Thunder?

Hermione's heart was beating in her ears so loudly she couldn't gather her own thoughts as she read, re-read and read again the case file of this character. This person. This new _her_. Name: Hawthorn, Serena. Blood-Status: Pure. Age: Seventeen, Eighteen on the twenty-eight of October. She is American. She is rich. And she is a member of the largest American Purebred family in Wizarding history. Inside the file is an entire family tree, family history. Notable family members and their occupations. Status in the war: Neutral, uncaring. Voldemort it seemed wasn't a big threat to American Witches and Wizards. Somehow that surprised her. Just somehow.

As she reads the mission briefing, she finds it funny. Funny because she is a Mudblood, a Muggle-born witch. And it is more and more obvious as she reads that whoever this informant is, this unknown wizard and Order member who will be her guide, her only contact to the outside world, is a Pure-blood.

Her heart beats impossibly fast as she collects the envelope tapped on the inside cover, the envelope marked for her eyes only. Opening it, she upends it into her palm, watching as the silver trinkets fall out onto her skin, and she blinks as she examines them. The first is a necklace, the shield that dangles from the chain is dainty twisted-silver and accented by black diamonds and small emeralds is the family crest of the Hawthorn family that she had seen moments ago at the top of their family tree. The initials S.H twisted into the intricate loops, it was no bigger than a quarter in all, and shone dazzling in the upstairs window of the room she no longer had to share.

The second item is a ring, it is also silver, or perhaps white gold, she has no way to tell. It is dainty, fit for a woman who is much gentler on her things than she. But maybe Serena was more gentle with her hands, in the Wizarding Aristocracy, she was probably a born and bred lady, she kept her temper, spoke when she was spoken to, hid her laughs and smiles behind her hand if they were genuine, and was practiced in the art of the sneer that so many Pure-bloods she knew were so good at delivering by birth right.

The band looped around the finger, and supported a heart cut emerald, while a shoot of silver branched off to support a second heart cut diamond, this gem was smaller than the first, but connected. Hermione did not care for this ring. It was too gaudy, too much for her and her simple tastes…but not for Serena's.

Replacing the items back into the small envelope with care, she continued reading on in the case file, quickly getting lost as she drank in the information for a final time. She was a Purebred Witch named Serena. Her family was one of the most affluent in the United States. She was an aristocrat. A lady. And she was in a romantic relationship with the informant whose identity would be rereleased before they left HQ later that evening.

Their relationship had been announced and she was staying at 'the Manor' for the duration of the summer holiday, where she would be getting to know his family, friends, contacts, and trying to gain the approval of them, and the Death Eaters they were in cahoots with. That was phase one. That was her mission. The idea was to get them to like her so much, that when 'tragedy struck' and she was asked to stay away from home for a while, the family would allow her to be with them until the mess was resolved.

At the end of the summer, Voldemort would return. At the end of the summer phase two would begin. But she wasn't allowed to know what phase two was quite yet. Likely, because no one assumed she would make it to the end of phase one. She was just told enough to keep her on her feet, and just little enough that if she was to be tortured for information, she could honestly say she knew nothing more, or less than what was in the case file. She was a spy.

As the sky started to turn, she knew she was out of time. And as she dressed, she remembered how she'd so arrogantly stuck up her nose; how she'd insisted she had experience and could handle it. As she dressed with trembling hands, she doubted she actually could. Doubted she'd survive. Doubted she would see the end of the war, or the end of Voldemort, or the end of anything, except herself. And though she was ordered no contact with Ron, Harry, Ginny, the Twins or anyone else she might want to say good-bye too, she quickly penned them a letter anyway.

It was short, simple, to the point and gave away nothing except that she had been given orders, and had to ship off that evening, and wasn't given time to say good-bye. She told them she loved them, to be safe, and not try to owl her, so as not to compromise her mission. As a foot note, she'd added something about her copy of Hogwarts: A History that was upstairs on the Windowsill, all but forgotten, and asked them to take good care of it for her.

As she looked at it, read it a second time, she felt silly. These could very well be the last words she ever was able to say to any of them, and she was asking them to protect her book. It was very….her she admitted. Very Hermione. But oh so inadequate in saying what needed to be said. For years she had practiced, rehearsed for hours at a time what she would say to Harry and Ron before the final battle. She'd struggled with it, fought with it, scribbled it down angrily, and wept over it after a night terror. But now, all of those words, those stored up words of love, appreciation, and farewell were gone. And in their place was just the last line of something _so _Hermione Granger, that she was ashamed to read it again.

She quietly stashed the note under Ron's pillow. Ron, who shook out his bedding before sleep in fear of spiders who would find it the second he lifted his pillow in just a few hours' time. And she felt like weeping. Curling up on the mattress surrounded by his scent; remembering the smell of parchment, and his breath in the morning after a good brushing, minty toothpaste and groggy warm eyes that sometimes saw through her, and other times didn't seem to see her at all. And just bask in the scent that she couldn't place as anything other than Ron Weasley, it was special to him, and warm, warm and spicy and pleasant.

But instead, she turned around, bit her lip, stuck her nose in the air with the determination of the head girl she had once been. She shrunk her trunk, stuffed in to the beaded bag, put the file on top, closed it up hanging it from her arm, and made her way for Moody's office with a confidence she didn't actually feel, but determination burning strong in her blood. _Bravery_. She imagined. _Gryffindor bravery_.

She'd arrived at his door early, and knocked this time without hesitation. It was too late to hesitate. This was her battle now. This was her war effort. It wasn't the greatest; she wasn't casting spells in battle, saving or ending lives. But this was her gift. The only thing she could do for them. It was her contribution. And it would be every bit as dangerous and require just as much wit as going into battle.

Hermione didn't think for a moment that she actually believed that. She wanted to of course. Everyone wanted to imagine that whatever effort they put into war would be just as important as the contributions of everyone else. Wanted to believe that they were aiding the greater good, whether it was true or not. She wondered briefly if this was an emotion shared by their enemy, the Death Eaters in their sweeping robes, pointed hoods and the terrifying curve of the masks of bone that adorned their faces.

If they looked around them and wondered what the mask to their left or right had done to serve their terrible leader, how many Phoenix's had they killed? How many Muggle's or innocent witches or wizards? And if they were a spy for their side, parading as a Phoenix, did that person in the middle look to his comrades and wonder if what little information he managed to slip over enemy lines was enough to even start to compare to the amount of good their sacrifices and the blood on their hands had done?

It was the gruff clearing of his thought that led her back out of her thoughts with a shock, jumping in surprise, a soft squeak leaving her lips as she turned so quickly she almost lost her footing. Alastor Moody, for his part didn't even blink. But she thought that the curve of his downturned lips read clearly enough that this mission was destined for failure.

"Granger," was grunted in greeting, and she quickly moved out of his way so he could disband the wards protecting his office twisting the key in the door. The key. That surprised her. With all the magic in the world at his finger tips and he still employed a Muggle key to protect his office. "Go in then," his voice was impatient as she complied. "Sorry," left her lips before she could stop it.

Back in this office she noticed with a little start that the unknown person who seemed so familiar was once again in the corner. "I've read the file," she finally stated, before opening the bag, digging until she'd found what she was looking for, and pulled it out, carefully so as not to lose anything before she let it sit on her lap. "I was reading over the information, and I think I can pull this off..." but the crack in her voice gave away her reckless confidence and she quickly hurried on. "But there is one thing…" of _course _there was. When wasn't there when she was involved.

"This alias, Serena Hawthorn; She's not on the family tree." Her fingers were already fumbling for the parchment on the stack when the voice behind her sounded, and she went stiff as a board.

"Observant, Granger." The words were hissed, like he was speaking through clenched teeth, and had come to the same conclusion she had while in her bedroom. But he stood, and stalked forward into the light, and she shot a look of betrayal at Moody, because things where starting to fall into place and it was like getting smacked in the face with a handful of snow, freezing her blood and stinging her skin; she wanted to be silent. But her brain was already racing a million miles a minuet at the implications because she was Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor Mudblood, and he…he was Draco bloody Malfoy. Slytherin prince, heir to all that was the great Pure-blooded family Malfoy; and her nemesis since first year.

"The family had a rather unfortunate split a couple centuries ago when great uncle blood purity met a muggle and married, and the family couldn't decide on if half-bloods and Muggle-borns should be allowed on the family tree and it was discontinued. Didn't you even read the blasted file at all!?"

She was stiff, her knuckles turning white as she clung to the folder in her lap, her jaw rhythmically clenching, and unclenching as she tried to work out just what it was she could say without getting in trouble, and if Mad-Eye would be too horribly opposed if he was one-less Death Eater informant short. Silently, she was grateful that her wand was in the bag somewhere, and not in her finger tips or she doubted Moody would have had many choices in this decision.

"It isn't _in_ the file," she finally managed to get out, as she kept her gaze on Moody, warm brown eyes were now darkened blood wood, snapping with an intense fire of barley controlled rage.

"Of course it's in the bloody file, Granger! We made sure it was in the bloody file this morning when-"

"No, I assure you it bloody well is not in the blasted file!"

"Great, you get a file for ten seconds and you lose crucial information-"

"I didn't lose anything! It wasn't in the file when it was given to me, I would know if it was because I-"

"Well apparently not since you lost the information-"

"There is no possible way I could have lost information that wasn't there to begin with-"

"Probably compromised the whole mission now, and I bet-"

"Compromised? _Compromised_. You think I compromised a mission by losing information-"

"Potter and Weasel are probably just jumping at the chance to play hero now and save you from the big bad-"

"That I didn't even _have_ and don't you dare bring them into this! Harry and Ron don't know anything about this mission because I was given order-"

"Since when you did you follow orders? I bet they are listening in outside the door-"

"You're a right bloody git you know that? And it's not even possible for them to be listening because this office is spelled to maintain privacy or the whole bloody Order would be banging the door down because you, Malfoy are as about as trust worthy as a rabid beast you Slytherin-"

There was a sudden pause in the argument caused when Moody slammed a fist down against the desk so hard the whole structure seemed to jump in response. His eye flashing wild as the other whirled in circles that made her stomach flip before she had to look away, back to the face of the blond before her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. The anger having brought a flush to her skin; she was standing, with no real idea how she got there, the folder dumped on the floor, but luckily not spread out too far. And his face was close to hers, grey eyes snapping with his own rage, swirling like quicksilver, and much too close, so close his breath ruffled her bangs and caused her to make a face of disgust, or discomfort, or maybe a little bit of both all at once.

"Sit down." The order was barked, and she found herself moving so quickly to do so that her elbow smacked into the wood of the armrest, causing her to make a sound in her throat from the pain that shot up her arm, and it took a moment but it seemed Malfoy did too, but with more grace than she had exhibited.

It seemed to take Mad-Eye a long time before he could collect his thoughts, the frown that always seemd to be on his face was deeper somehow than it had been before, and she could tell he was not at all amused by the less-than-professional outburst.

Slowly he held up a piece of parchment, "I believe this is the information that you were denied, Granger." He passed it to her, and she let her eyes skim the in-depth information about the breaking of the Hawthorn blood line, and discontinuation of the Hawthorn family tree. She _wants_ to turn, to look at the face of the blond behind her, and smile as she watches the smirk fade from his face. "It was deemed unimportant until the briefing meeting, and withheld from the file." She wants to turn, and smile, but something in Mad-Eye's demeanor tells her not to move.

She is sure her face says something akin to, 'I told you so'. Sure because she can all but see it reflected at her through one of the many bobbles Mad-Eye Moody keeps on his desk. But she remains still and silent, and figures there will be plenty of time for her to say it to his blond, arrogant face later. When Moody isn't present; and she can't get marked for bad behavior. Then she'll go for it.

"I take it by now, you've caught on to the plan, and so I won't go over the boring details of who our informant is." She looks like she is about to argue and he cuts her off, "No arguments, Granger." And he says like he is chastising a solder. And she realizes with a little surprise that is exactly what she has become. And she's getting orders, not her grades on a test. There is no extra credit. Just hard facts; and these marks can't be undone. "Yes Sir."


	3. Illusions

**Title: **The Lion and the Beast  
**Author: **BookyJuliet  
**Genre: **Dark, Romance.  
**AU/CU: **Alternate Universe.  
**Rating: **M, for safety reasons.  
**Warnings: **More harsh language.  
**Word Count: **2,736.  
**A/N: **The amount of songs that go into writing this story is a long and varied list indeed. It has also occurred to me that I forgot to mention that this writing exercise is a work of fiction, and that with the exception of the plot, I do not claim to have any legal rights over the characters, spells, places, or canon plot over-laps. Those belong to J.K. Rowling. She is a lovely woman. Now that I have given you enough pause, onward to this chapter that took too long to write, and didn't get where I wanted it to. Also, it has been noted that Draco has taken to wearing rouge blusher, and wearing women's clothing. If you do not understand, you were not supposed to.  
**Dedication: **_Honoria Granger_. Thanks for the laugh.

Illusions

Hermione feels as if she has been walking for hours. It stands to reason that she probably has been. And as she looks around them, the sun is long past gone, the only light is the bobbing tip of Draco Malfoy's wand as he walks, smooth, even strides that she tries to study and imitate, but instead ends up tripping over her feet like they are some foreign part of her that she is not acquainted with. She curses herself for not eating much during the day, and Moody for this mission. She curses Lupin for not warning her, Harry and Ron for not catching her in the act of saying goodbye, the damn mosquitos that seem to think she's the next best thing since sliced bread. Then, she curses Malfoy, and his swaggering superiority complex, and the way he still sneers at her, and for most of the evening refuses to acknowledge her presence.

They have been walking for what seems like hours. Her stomach is protesting loudly, her feet growing more uncoordinated by the second. She knows that this is war. And she had suspected that war would mean doing some walking. Walking, and running, and casting spells she doesn't even want to think about uttering. She had imagined that she was in shape well enough to handle it. Now, she wasn't so sure. And maybe, just _maybe_ this is why she is being given a mission that requires no walking, or fighting at all.

"Where are we even going?" She finally asks, breaking the silence. Adding to her list of hates in the way her voice holds the hint of a whine. She cannot be whining, and especially not at Draco Malfoy. For a long moment, it seems like this will be just another question in a long slew of questions that he refuses to answer.

"A safe house," he says, voice tight like he's doing his best not to explode.

"Oh…" To think about it, it was an obvious answer. Moody had said several times that she wouldn't be entering the Manor for another week at the earliest. She wasn't fully prepared, she needed training. And who else was going to give that to her, than her _partner_? It was impossible to think of him that way. And yet she needed to. Because he was all she had. Even though he made her blood boil, and her hands shake, and everything he did made her want to curse him, hex him or punch that damnable smirk off his face. But her life was in his hands.

That was a twist of fate she would never be ready for. "Is it much farther?" He seemed to heave a great sigh. Like speaking with her was tiresome. They would very soon be in a situation where they both needed to pretend that they were lovers. If they couldn't even stomach looking at one another, there was no doubt in the witches mind that they were both very shortly to be dead.

"No, Granger, it's not that much farther. As a matter of fact if you'd spend less time with your burdensome lines of unending questioning, you would have more time to lift your head and notice the outline of the house right in front of your bloody face." His words where ground out through clenched teeth, and her stomach only sank further as she felt the rise of her anger straining her control.

She counted to ten slowly in her head, biting back every scathing remark that flitted through her mind. "My apologies, I didn't realize that my attempt to successfully complete a civil conversation in light of our current mission was burdensome." It comes out harsh, and scathing. And she almost feels bad about it. But then he is glancing at her and in the light from his wand, she sees his sneer, and is ready to grab the nearest blunt object.

"When we both die, I want you to remember that it's because you can't handle answering a few little burdensome questions!" She snaps. The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of them. And though he slows in his walk, looking for all the world like he had a piece of his mind to give her, she just continues pushing onward, picking up the pace while ignoring the way the roots catch on her trainers and threaten to send her reeling face-first into the dirt on the over grown path.

She wasn't angry, not really. But rather frustrated, almost to the point of tears. Because this wasn't just her life, but it was his, and it was Ron's and Ginny's and the Twins and everyone she cared about right down to Harry James Potter.

That caught him by surprise. Of all the insufferable things she could have said, that was the one option he hadn't considered. It was true that Draco Malfoy was a desperate man. Desperate for many reasons from his families barley hanging on to their status in the Wizarding world to his father's blind acceptance of Voldemort and following him until death, and his mother's inability to see anything past how much she loved Lucius Malfoy. He was risking everything. Becoming a traitor, to the Death Eaters, to his status and his family, right down to his moralistic integrities; everything he held dear. And he was sacrificing it for them.

She was a Mudblood. A filthy Muggle-born witch basking in all the glories of a Pure-blood, but she wasn't. She wasn't pure, or natural, or even something that was supposed to exist. She was an anomaly. A fluke in the tapestry of magic, along with the rest of _her_ kind. But for his father, he would bare it. He would hold her filthy hand, and look into her eyes, and kiss her dirty lips. He would laugh at her stupid jokes, and ignore that every second she was close to him was another second that increased his inner desire to set himself on fire.

But did he really want her to _die_? The irrational part of his brain that was honed by an entire lifetime of prejudice and hate easily barked that yes, _yes _ he did want her to die. And his was the wand he wanted her to die by. And if he ever had the chance in open battle, so help him, Merlin the urge would be so great he'd struggle with himself to keep his wand arm down. To keep the curse off his lips, and the hatred from his eyes, because she was an abomination, a filthy little Mudblood. And she bested him in every way possible.

From academics to gaining her way into the inner circle of Harry Potter, this Mudblood, this Muggle-born who didn't belong in his world was better than him. It chapped his arse, made his blood boil, and his jaw tick as his hands clenched to fists. But he couldn't afford for her to die yet. Not when so much rode on this plan, his _family_ depended on this plan.

Grey eyes watched in a nervous, shuddering rage as she came to a stop, eyeing the air wearily before she gently reached out a hand, sucking in a breath as she yanked her hand back as the magic of the barrier gave her a warning shock. This was _his_ home. The house he'd bought in the event that the war went horribly wrong. This was his contingency plan. Not even his mother knew about the small cottage in the woods with all of the protection spells and barriers that the Order of the Phoenix could offer him. Gruffly clearing his throat he slid up beside her, pressing a hand between her shoulder blades, a look of disgust settling in the lines of his face as he pushed her forward and through the barriers.

They admitted her easily enough with the aid of his touch, but he could feel that the magic was nervous. Because he'd let her in, but it was obvious he didn't want her inside the confines of the only place in the world where he could be truly safe. They both took the three steps that lead to the porch in silence, and he unlocked the door, motioning her inside, "Your room is in the back, Granger." His voice sounded less than civil as he pointed her in the right direction.

"We'll get started in the morning." The finality in his voice left no room for argument, and soon, he was gone, taking the stairs that led to the upper portion of the house two at a time to get away from her more quickly. She was an abomination. The collective epitome of everything he was ever told he should hate in his life. An abomination…but she was his only hope.

That made him sick to his stomach.

Hours later, after sleep, a bath and food, that she had prepared for them both but he'd left untouched in favor of creating his own meal they had finally settle into what he called 'lessons' and she mentally referred to as torture.

"Damn it, Granger!" He barked, pushing her away from him for what seemed like the millionth time in just a few short minutes. "How can you be this bloody bad at dancing? It's the Waltz, not advanced Divinations!"

She felt her cheeks heating in embarrassment, the frustration continuing to mount. Growing and growing until she was permanently biting back scathing remarks. The inside of her cheek was bleeding from the strength with which she'd been biting down on it. She _knew_ it was the Waltz. She could faintly remember MacGonagall teaching them the steps, her matronly voice rising and falling to be heard over the sound of the music playing throughout the Great Hall. "_One, two, three. One, two, three. One, Chin up, Patill. One, two, three._" Echoing, over and over.

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm just….nervous," she finishes lamely. "I was never all that good at dancing, Victor…Victor was always the better dancer. He made me look much better than I was…" She hates being vulnerable. She hates admitting that this is one thing she truly cannot do with any kind of grace, because her place is in a library, not on the dance floor.

He is glaring at her again, those swirling grey eyes clearly showing his anger, when he is angry, he's an open book for her to read. Suddenly, he's sighing in frustration, running tapered, graceful fingers through his hair that is damp with sweat. "Fucking…just pretend I'm Weasley," he bites out. "Pretend, for two blasted minutes that I am Weasley, and that you don't hate me, and that I'm not a Slytherin, and you aren't a Gryffindor and this is as normal as tying your shoelaces."

Hermione nods, slowly as he approaches her again, the song on repeat will be stuck in her head for days. As he wraps an arm around her fingers resting against the skin between her shoulder blades, she takes position, her hand clasped in his lightly, because she is scared he'll yell at her again if she adds any more pressure. She takes a deep breath, finding the count in the music. _One, two, three_, she remembers. _One, two, three._ Feeling his body poise to move, she steps back with her right foot, planting it before the left moves back, sweeping to the side to plant and finally a step together. Then, with her left she steps forward, _one_. Her right follows it forward, sweeping to the side, _two_. She steps together on what she prays is the three, knowing she'd succeeded in at least one full rotation of the box step before he's making her move again.

She does her best to keep her eyes on his, and not on the floor. Though she is trying to imagine Ron, his grey eyes are wrong. It's not a bad thing. They can actually be pleasant when the smooth mask is on his face as he dances. She desperately needs to find something about him she likes. All morning she's been struggling to find things. So far, the list is short, and this makes it lucky number four, and it's a far cry from the look of intense concentration she knows is twisting her own. She reminds herself it's as natural as tying her shoelaces. When that doesn't work, and she stumbles, she tries; _it's as natural as reading a book_. That helps, just a little.

She was surprised that the first thing he felt she needed to learn to fit into Pureblood society was the knowledge of simple ballroom dances. Nothing fancy, just standard, run of the mill steps; it was a rudimentary crash course. It's the first time Hermione can remember where she has thought of Pure-blood society like the English courts during the fifteenth century, and not as a group of hate filled bigots. It was bound to happen; she rationalizes, but still makes her uncomfortable. For the first time, she is seeing the enemy as human, and not black billowing cloaks, pointy hoods and masks shooting the killing curse at anyone and everything they can.

Lost in thought she managed to lose count, stepping squarely on his foot. He grunts, eyes snapping fire, his hand tightening painfully on her own. "We should send you against Voldemort," he drawls, staring her down. "He'd be so appalled by your dancing he'd probably shrivel up and die on the spot in horror."

"Oh please, if he was going to die from anything it'd be your grades," she countered, rolling her eyes. "You lot are really awful at studying you know. I know that Herbology is difficult for some people but I'd have expected that your house would have realized that dreadful is not an acceptable grade." She continued to stare him down, watching his jaw tick in obvious annoyance. She'd have felt bad if this was anyone else, and if he hadn't been running her like a slave for the better part of the last two hours.

"Doesn't feel good, does it?" She quipped, pushing the bangs out of her face, the summer heat was attacking the small dance studio in waves now and it was overbearingly hot. "I am doing my best to not criticize you; one would think you'd do the same. We only have so many days left for me to learn everything and every time you stop us for one of your immature insults, we lose more time." She approached him with calm, analytical reasoning. An emotional response had thus far, and as long as she'd known him, proven ineffective against the arrogant Slytherin.

There was a look on his face, one she couldn't fully read, something stained at the edges and peppered with how much he'd rather be anywhere else, and yet, here he was. A small moment existed where a mutual understanding passed between them, lingering for a scant second before it disappeared into nothingness once more. "Let's go," he mumbled, stalking past her, and she followed because she didn't know what else to do. It was good practice in following his lead.

Hermione didn't have much time to examine the house where they were hiding. But as she followed him out the front door, and into the summer sun, she finally had a chance to really see it for the first time. The roof had three points that all reached a different height and covered different pieces of the home, one taller than the next. Above the front door, half way up the first point was a window that looked out over the front of the property, and on the sill was a potted plant that seemed to be overcome by natural flora.

It had dark green shutters, and walls of grey coble stone and up the outer wall that she reckoned got the most sun, shoots of English Ivy climbed the stone. A half-hazard fence surrounded the property, and saplings of unknown trees and well placed flowers grew surrounded by the naturally occurring vegetation. It was happy and bright, and so different from any place she'd ever imagined Draco Malfoy to stay, even short term that it made her quirk a brow as she followed him down a path of little grey pebbles that crunched beneath her feet towards an unknown destination.


	4. Two Pieces

**Title: **The Lion and the Beast  
**Author: **BookyJuliet  
**Genre: **Dark, Romance.  
**AU/CU: **Alternate Universe.  
**Rating: **M, for safety reasons.  
**Warnings: **More harsh language.  
**Word Count: **2,750.  
**A/N: **When I imagined this scene, it was nothing at all like it came out. However, I was possessed to keep writing, and so I did. And here is the next chapter. Before all you snooty patoties start commenting saying it isn't reasonable for her not to know information about Wizard holidays, remember two things. FIRST: This is a work of fiction, and as such I as author have the ultimate control in creative freedom, and am using her as a means to an end to explain them to you. And SECOND: That she is a muggle-born, not raised around wizard traditions, and most of what she knows about Wizard culture is learned in school, while shopping for supplies, or from Ron. And I don't see him chatting all day about how he spent his holidays before he went to Hogwarts.

Two Pieces

The sun turned his hair from platinum to gold, haloing him in light, and Hermione triumphantly added it to her list of things she found acceptable about one, Draco Malfoy. So far, the list was short. His taste in literature, he cleaned up after himself, his fingernails were never dirty, the serene look in his eyes while dancing, and the way he seemed to be cloaked in gold in the sunlight. Five things. Five things to save their lives, it seemed inadequate; but was better than nothing.

"Obviously there is a hierarchy," he explains, using his hands as he speaks, his back pressed to a tree in the shade as she stands not five feet away, walking the edge of a pond that was within the barriers of the cottage. It isn't very large, but seems deep enough for swimming if they were inclined. "It's hard to understand at first, and it depends on two factors. If you've got a title, and how close you are to Voldemort."

They lapsed into silence for a while as she busied her mind thinking over this gem of information. "Title, like the Duchess of Cambridge, or title as in Albus Dumbledore, Merlin First Class?" Her question probably seemed stupid and she feels an embarrassed blush rise into her cheeks. It is stunning really how little she knows about Pure-blood society. She wasn't one, and had met very few whom she liked, it was never a subject of interest to her, but now on the bank of the pond, she wishes she had.

"We aren't Muggle royalty, Granger," he groans, like it should be obvious what he is talking about. "Our names, Granger, are our titles. I am Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, grandson of Abraxas Malfoy. I'm a third generator Death Eater, and supporter of Voldemort. Third generation, and my father is inner circle. That puts my family, towards the top, while say, Blaise, while still higher than a blood traitor, half-blood or Mud-Muggle-born is towards the bottom of the triangle. Zabini is a well enough known name, it holds power, and has a sizable fortune to back it, but he isn't a Death Eater, and he isn't close to Voldemort."

Her entire body stiffens as his lips start to form the words she knew were likely in his thoughts, but had somehow remained free and clear from their conversations until this point, before she relaxed as he covers for his almost slip, and she decides to let him. The witch scrunches her nose in thought. This was going to be harder than she initially imagined. "Does generation always factor?" She finally countered, turning to look at him, arms crossed over her chest as she tries to think of who she knows to be a Death Eater.

"Not always. First Generation Death Eaters are always revered with more respect. And while it's true that no one _stops_ being a Death Eater without suffering the…consequences, those who are getting on in age or were gravely injured are allowed the respect without being 'active duty'. Defectors are labeled blood traitors. If you are highly respected, they may let you live, but only after they torture you half insane and destroy your memories. Someone like, aunt Bellatrix and uncle Rodolphus, they are first generation, but their parents were supporters, and they have no children, but are still active and are special to Voldemort himself. Thus, the Lestrange family is highly revered in our society, at least amongst those that are viewed as truly pure."

He takes a break, maybe to collect his thoughts, or to marvel at the fact that he had in fact become one of those defectors. Maybe he is imagining his fate should their side fail. "Peter Pettigrew on the other hand, is a first generation Death Eater for the Pettigrew family; his parents were not supports of Voldemort in the first war and the campaigns before it. And while his lips are firmly attached to Voldemort's arse, his level of respect is just above that of Blaise Zabini."

Hermione mules this over, twisting it this way and that inside her mind as she abandons the cool water to slip into the shade, sitting a comfortable distance away from before she lays back in the grass, one arm resting against her stomach as the other plays with the blades of grass. "It's almost sad, really." She muses aloud, thinking on what she knows of the nervous, scampering Pettigrew. "He betrayed his friends, caused their death and was hunted to the ends of the earth by Sirius, and he's still just a lap dog to be laughed at…"

He seems to ignore this outburst as he pushes onward with his lesson. "Snape, is a half-blood. But he is thought very highly of by Voldemort, and is often sought out by him for advice. Though his blood status is undesirable, his importance to Voldemort cannot be denied, and so he is also looked at as high status."

It was all very confusing, confusing but not unexpected. "My Mother is from the Black family, as is aunt Bella, Andromeda, Regulus and Sirius. The Black family were great supports of Voldemort and what he stood for, and of the four children they had, three of the four became Death Eaters. Because they are from a great family, and married into a second, my Mother and aunt Bella are seen as very important. However, they will always bare the shame of Regulus, their cousin being a defector, and Aunt Andromeda and Sirius being downright against the cause." As he spoke, it seemed to her that he'd been taught these lessons himself, maybe by his Mother, or Father. Or maybe the Aunt of which he accepts so easily.

"His inner circle, the ones he trusts the most, there are twelve of them. They are the ones who are allowed to sit with him at his table during meetings, events and meals if he is staying with a family instead of one of his many bases of operation. The inner circle consists of Severus Snape, Aunt Bellatrix and Uncle Rodolphus, my Mother, Father and I, Peter Pettigrew, Yaxley, Antonin Dolohov, Alecto and Amycus Carrow and Thorfinn Rowle. To other Death Eaters and their families, being a part of the inner circle is a form of royalty in itself." He spoke calmly, like he wasn't giving her a list of the most dangerous men and women in Wizard Britain.

The brunette stayed quiet as she implemented the same analogy she'd been running with all day. Marking Voldemort as King, and setting up his court around him. Listing everyone she knew of to be on his side in order from highest ranking, to lowest in her mind.

"Do you have feasts often?" She inquired, letting her head fall in his direction, taking in the picturesque Malfoy who paused in thought before deeming the question acceptable.

"As you know, the Wizard year runs from October thirty-first through October thirtieth. In that time there are eight major holidays. Samhain, Yule, Imbolc, Ostara, Beltane, Litha, Lammas and Mabon. Some of the Wizard holidays, are larger events, some smaller." He glances up, maybe to make sure she is still paying attention. When he seems satisfied, he starts again.

"For Pure-bloods, Samhain is our Muggle New Year. It's our greatest and most revered holiday of the year. Every Samhain there is a big celebration. It begins with a festival for young Witches and Wizards, there is food, and drinks and games for them to play. In the traditional style, there is a large bonfire, the Feast of the Dead is prepared, and the food offerings placed on altars and doorsteps in the village, extra chairs are everywhere, apples are buried along the road side, and right before the pinnacle, you can write your name on a stone and toss it into the fire so the next day you can retrieve it and see what your year is going to be like based on its condition."

"Then, the fun begins," he smiles devilishly. "All of it leads up to a themed ball, and large feast, hosted by a different family every year that begins at sundown, and lasts until midnight. It is mostly filled with playing pranks on one-another and the sweets are amazing, always homemade. Everyone rushing around, giving their well-wishes for the year, and offering reminders to strength your wards for the year; not to forget about protecting themselves and their families."

Hermione was lost in the things he explained, trying to picture it. At Hogwarts, there was a big feast at Halloween, but nothing like he described. At home, children dressed up in costumes and went door to door for candy. But his description of events was much more satisfying to her imagination. Arts and crafts, hot spiced cider to hold off the chill, playing games. But the ball was the part that had her mind reeling, lost in swirls of autumn colored fabrics that swept elegantly around a grand ballroom.

"That sounds really wicked," she finally admitted, moving to support her weight on her elbows. Ron it seems has rubbed off on her, and she is unsure how she feels about it. "That's only one holiday though; do you celebrate them all that way?" She hates that her voice is filled with the edge of wonder that she is trying, very poorly to conceal.

He smirks, not fooled by her façade. "Mostly. Not all of the festivals are as big or intricate as Samhain. But they are usually filled with good food and grand parties. You will probably be around during the Samhain celebrations, but before that will be Litha. It's the longest day of the year. There is a festival for this as well, but it's smaller, and the feast is usually just for friends and family. Though there is a party, but usually only the adults attend it." Draco shifts then, making a face before settling back into stillness.

"Lammas or Lughnasadh, is a larger festival in July, but it is celebrated in the larger villages, Pure-bloods favor Hogsmeade, but anyone who would like can show up. There is a craft fair, a bon fire after sundown, everyone comes in casual wear, the children braid flowers into the women's hair, men compete in the funeral games and the villagers prepare a feast that is open to everyone, women create gifts to give to their husbands, boyfriends or fathers." The blond has seemed to have gotten lost as he explains the festival, his hands moving along with his words as he tries to explain the happenings.

"After the feast there is dancing around the fire, live music and free drinks from the pubs; thank Merlin. And all day, Tailtin trial marriages are being announced. Funny things trial marriages," he chuckles, the sound dying off quickly as he realizes his slip and his face goes passive once again. "They last for a year and a day, and at the end, you get the choice of actually getting married, or it can be broken without consequences. To Pure-blood families, they are kind of a pain in the arse, but no one is too concerned about them since they are magically binding to an extent, but not legal in the long term…" he trails off, lost in his thoughts, hands going still in his lap.

Hermione's chocolate eyes look up into the sky, watching the clouds as they drift by as she tries to imagine herself in these festivals. Getting lost in their crowds, dancing along; creating gifts to give to…well probably her current companion, he would more than likely toss them out. It wouldn't stop her from creating them, and watching the trial weddings all day wouldn't be too bad, it would even be fun to see what it was like, a year and a day wasn't so bad, and maybe after the war she and Ron could try it. After being Malfoy's fake girlfriend for however long it couldn't be as terrible as…

Sitting up so quickly her head spun, a smile settled on to her lips, she released a sound of victory. "That's it!" She proclaimed a little too loudly for the small space between them. "Malfoy you bloody brilliant ferret!" She moved to stand again her eyes locked on him like he'd suddenly sprouted another head.

"Lammas! Lammas is the answer to Serena staying close to the Malfoy family after the holiday!" She was vibrating with the kind of excitement that only came when a good idea was finally on the table after thinking too hard to find a good answer. "We'll do the Tailtin trial marriage thing. That guarantees us at least a year and a day before we have to start worrying over the next step in the plan, and is a lot more feasible than some disaster in the Hawthorn family. And if your family would rather she not be at the Manor all the time, which I doubt since faking a marriage will no doubt get your mother interested in her in a way she wasn't before that, you can always tell Moody that I need a flat or a house to reside in part time," she mused aloud, before stop in the steady pacing she'd begun to look at him.

"It does make sense, doesn't it?" He finally breathed, his fingers smoothing through his hair. "If it was an accident or streak of bad fortune Mother and Father would want to know all about it, details we don't have and why none of it has been in the post, or circulating through gossip. Not that we concern ourselves with American blood lines, but if it was that bad, we'd know about it…"

She could tell he was cursing her. Cursing himself and the Order and everyone else who just magically assumed that this would be a good idea, and they would manage to pull it together and survive just because the greater good was counting on it. Cursing it because it seemed to actually be happening and despite themselves they were managing to go with the flow and not just cave to the pressure to scream and fight and murder one another. _Not _that hadn't crossed her mind a million times over by now, because it has with a terrifying frequency.

He growled in apparent frustration. Hermione figured she could understand to an extent. He had his reasons for being a defector; she had her reasons for choosing to be a spy, and risking her life. But those reasons didn't change how they felt about things. She was still 'Mudblood' Hermione Granger. He was still Pure-blood Draco Malfoy. He hated her for things she could not control, and she in turn hated him for it. If there was one thing she could say for them, there would be no lack of passion in their faked relationship.

"You aren't marrying me," she snaps finally when she can take his silence no longer without it wounding her pride further. "You're marrying Serena Hawthorn. American witch. _Pure-blood_." She lets the word stretch on her tongue, emphasizing it while she does her best to keep the heart and discomfort from her face. "And it wouldn't be real, either. Just a faked year and a day marriage to go with our faked relationship, with an imaginary witch; that happens to be acted out by myself, and not because I particularly want to do it either."

Malfoy's eyes are flashing, and she takes this to mean that he is angry for some reason over something she has said. Probably the part about not wanting to do it anymore than he does, why shouldn't she want to be his wife for a year? What possible reason could there be for her? He maybe her school time enemy, but he is still one of the most well off blokes in Wizard society across the globe.

"Fine, we'll bloody do it then!" He hisses no end to whatever rage he harbors inside of himself. "Fuck…" he spits, as he pushes up from the tree, with his sleeves rolled up, she can see the mark branded on his forearm, the twisting black void that mars his alabaster flesh. _Right_, her mind seems to answer. _Because, he's a Death Eater_. Even if he was parading around as a Phoenix, he still had the mark of his hatred and blood supremacy on his skin.


	5. Hopeless Wanderer

Title:The Lion and the Beast  
Author:BookyJuliet  
Genre:Dark, Romance.  
AU/CU:Alternate Universe.  
Rating:M, for safety reasons.  
Warnings:More harsh language.  
Word Count:1,800.  
A/N:It seems that running around like a chicken without a head as I attempt to get my travel plans together and finalized is causing some issues with my writing time. Regardless, here is your next chapter, it is shorter, but was interesting to write, to say the least. Also, if you are curious, on my profile there are some Q&A's to keep you busy as I work on catching up. Reviews are lovely, but not required.  
**Shout Outs: **Thank you to the following, for deciding to track this story, or follow me, as an author: _EllieMay Duncan, SugarSweet82, kdrac, tangerinequeen, tacker23, AtlantaOfArcadia, Miss'Phelps, itsjillian, Nostariel, Ivy Grimm, Sasha2121, pillowwolfpup, Morfinafina, La Belladonna, wolfshifter 1001, LondonGirlxXx, KaTee19 and Honoria Granger_. Thank you for the support, bearing with me as I make my random updates, and for putting up with my lack of Beta, and there for any kind of formal editing; this is for you. -BookyJuliet

Hopeless Wanderer

Draco Malfoy's face was alive with concentration as they moved about the floor, her skin under the tips of his fingers was warm and soft, a distraction. An _unwanted_ distraction. Hermione Granger was not supposed to be warm and soft, she was supposed to be dirty, and abnormal. Or perhaps insufferable. His turn in thoughts was causing him as much grief as teaching her to dance, but he had to admit, if only to himself that she was improving. It still wasn't the practiced ease one would expect from a Pure-blood, she was no Pansy Parkinson, but she was graceful enough to pass; and some Witches and Wizards never did reach the levels of high proficiency in dance as his family.

There was no room for a Malfoy who couldn't dance.

As the song came to a close, he twirled her, hating the way her eyes shined up at him happily as she clapped, a rare moment where she expressed pleasure in how far she had come. She was almost ready, at least, as ready as she would ever be. And Draco found that the closer to 'Operation Loverbirds' as it had been nicknamed by blasted Mad-Eye Moody, they became, the more and more he considered his fate if they were to fail.

_Blood traitor_. Even the thought made him shudder. He could not live in his world if he was labeled a blood traitor now. There was a chance he wouldn't be welcomed in his world after the war if it succeeded. He was becoming a man lost. A man with no direction and nowhere to belong, and that thought was almost as terrifying as the thought of being caught.

Could he live outside of the society he'd been raised? Could he still hold his head high in the face of the families he was betraying? Families…there were numerous families. He was smiling in their faces, dragging them in for a hug, and whispering words of welcome as he drove the dagger into their back. _A true Slytherin_, he mused. A true Slytherin…

"That will be all then, for this anyway." His voice was far away, so lost in his thoughts he was not present in the moment.

"Great! We can continue going over Malfoy history then? Or shall we move on to Hawthorn history?" Her voice was so full of intelligence. So warm and welcoming, and he hated her for it. Hated that she seemed to forget who he was, and who she was, or rather _what _she was. This wasn't History of Magic, this wasn't Potions. You didn't get a grade for knowing everything; you just got dead if you didn't.

"Why do you bloody do that?" He snapped voice gruff as he stared her down.

"Do what?" She asked, her head tilting to the side innocently like she wasn't driving him up the damn wall.

"That! Act like were friends. Act like this is some class you are taking a test on at the end of the week. Like you aren't a _Mudblood_!" He sneered, fast contorting with rage and discussed. He could see it, there in her eyes. The pain the word brought her. The pain and the anger. It was shocking how clearly he could see it on her face when the thin band that held back her rage snapped.

And suddenly she was in his face, wand pressed into his throat, eyes snapping fire as she let out a tense breath, so compressed by emotions that it came out as a low, deadly hiss.

"Like I'm not a what? A _Mudblood_! Why are you even doing this?" She demanded voice shrill with her rage. "Why are you pretending to be on our side when you still think that way? When you still see me as a second class citizen, with no right to breath your air let along hold this wand?"

The tip of said instrument was pressing harder into his skin. If he was a lesser man, he would have winced, but he held his ground. Her magic pulsed through the enchanted wood, sending warning signals to him, how close he was to being hexed to oblivion. But he just stood there, glared her down.

"Because you _are_ a second class citizen," he ground out. Like explaining it to her was tiresome. "Because no matter the outcome of this bloody war you will _always_ be second class, and not even that. Third! Because before you are the half-bloods." He laughed the sound bitter. "Do you think killing Voldemort will change that? That him being gone suddenly means you are equal?"

He stepped forward, ignoring the pain, ignoring the magic. "You. Are. A. Muggle-born. You will never be the same as me. You will never be the same as Weasley, or _Potter_," he spat. "You won't because you _aren't_. Not because of Voldemort, or because of the Pure-bloods. Because of what you _are_. And yes, I do hate you for it. I hate you for being an abomination to my world. I hate you for waltzing through Hogwarts castle like you _deserve _to be there."

There was a long, pregnant pause, as her face twisted, and contorted with so many emotions, that he quickly gave up on reading her face.

"Do you think it's just us?" He asked dark amusement in his tone. "Do you think that only Death Eaters and Pure-bloods see your kind as below us? Do you think that because Remus bloody Lupin, or McGonagall accepts you as a witch that somehow every half-blood, every pure-blood that isn't us accepts you freely?" He laughed. He laughed in her face, out right, and not caring if she cried. Or if she was angry, or if he'd broken her spirit.

"Do you think the Ministry of Magic doesn't view you as an anomaly? A chink in the armor? A blight on the otherwise perfect fabric that is the magical world?"

He could tell by her face that these were thoughts she had in fact entertained. Draco could watch the way her world was being ripped out of the ground, turned upside down and smashed back into its base without even the pretense of grace. Her wand shook, and then lowered, slowly. Excruciatingly slow.

"You can kill all the Death Eaters in London and still not make a dent in the equal rights movement you seem to confuse this to be. My reasons for wanting to end Voldemort have nothing to do with you, and your blasted Mudblood comrades. I'm not fighting a _war _to give you equal rights. I'm fighting a bloody war to stop a madman who kills without discretion, tortures, and rapes and pillages everything in this world that means something, or makes life worth living." He let his silver eyes bore into her brown ones. Brown. _Dirty. Dirty, filthy blood_.

"Before you wage war, Granger, maybe you ought to know what exactly it is you are fighting for." Stepping away from her, he took his leave. Stalking out of the studio to ascend the stairs that led to his room, his only solitude in a world otherwise ripped to shreds.

He could curse himself for letting her get under his skin. For failing to keep the pretense that she wasn't disgusting to him in place. Maybe if he had, than the future would look less screwed. He could hear his mother now, nagging in the back of his mind as she tried to explain how to get what he wanted out of people. _Compassion, Draco. You need to breed compassion to get what you want out of people. Otherwise they don't feel they owe you anything at all._ Compassion.

Compassion was comprised of two elements. The ability to recognize that you as a being, are not separate from the whole of society, and every other living being on the planet from flora to fauna. And the ability to detangle yourself from the idea, or fear of outcome, throwing caution to the wind; a leap of faith, while being fully prepared to bash your face into the pavement if no one catches you. Compassion was not something Draco Malfoy possessed.

Then again, perhaps he did. But it was not something he exorcised. Compassion he could not offer. And it was compassion that would get him out of this mess. If he didn't, they were doomed to fail. If he didn't back track, re-write his steps, it was as good as wrapping them both up with a nice silver ribbon to be delivered and executed promptly.

It wasn't that hard, really. Not in his thoughts anyway. He needed to retreat, charge in the opposite direction of his wrath and scorn; he needed her to _like _him. Like wasn't love, but it'd make the charade easier. There were potions for this kind of thing, of course. And it wouldn't be so hard; he supposed to start slipping it into her morning tea. A gentle love potion, an artificial affection, it would be passable, but too easy to detect.

No, he needed her on his side of her own accord. And his little outburst had set him back in his plans by ten years if he had to guess. Slamming the door behind him, he cursed, kicking the leg of his proper four-post bed. The black comforter and soft beige sheets looked terribly inviting. But he had no time to take a nap. He could erase her memory; remove their little spat from the archives of her over-active brain. But tampering with her head was dangerous, even for someone as skilled as himself.

It stood to reason then, that he had only two options. Both of which went hand-in-hand, and would be terribly painful for the blond aristocrat to suffer through. But so was joining the Order, and willingly agreeing to fake a relationship with Hermione Granger. He was doing all sorts of painful and undesirable things lately, why should he stop now?

His next move would be to _apologize_. The idea made him scowl. A Malfoy was never supposed to feel sorry for anything they did. A Malfoy willingly coming to an apology was a sure sign that hell was freezing over, and perhaps, considering Voldemort, it was. After his apology, it would be necessary to breed compassion. It would not erase his transgression. But it would go a long way in the right direction to pull at the strings of her bleeding, Gryffindor heart.

It would allow him to recover some lost ground. It would not fix the mistake, nor was it a perfect plan. But it was a start. Sighing heavily, he let himself fall back into the soft, comfortable bed. _Perhaps a little nap is in order_, he mused. Perhaps, just a little.


End file.
